The festival can often make you queasy, as geopolitics are played out through the proxy of art. This year it feels on the verge of collapsing in on itself
On Tuesday, the Russian pavilion at the Venice Biennale was full of activity. Several pallets, piled high with cases of prosecco and a few boxes of good old English Gordon’s gin, had been delivered outside. Inside, Ensemble Toloka, a group of “young folk performers and professional researchers of Russian authentic music”, were singing, balalaikas at their feet, the first in a programme of performances staged for the preview days of the art festival.
When I sent a few seconds of footage of this to a friend, a close and critical observer of Russia who lived there until recently, the reply came quickly, a succinct review: “Ethnic shit to cover up their war crimes.” Later, I saw DJs at the decks and a handful of people dancing. At pretty much the same time, the city centre of Kramatorsk in eastern Ukraine was being bombed in broad daylight – six dead.
Charlotte Higgins is the Guardian’s chief culture writer
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